


The Wine Runs Out

by fawatson



Category: The Last of the Wine - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21899896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: Alexias and Thalia decide to leave Athens.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	The Wine Runs Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubynye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/gifts).



> **Request:** I would love a glimpse of Alexias in his further life: during Sokrates' trial, with his wife formerly Lysis' wife, things like that.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.

My first inkling of the dangerous times we lived in came to me the day the seventy were crowned with olive leaves as saviours of democracy, when I sat in the stadium listening to Anytos. We were at peace in the sense there was no war to fight. But in our hearts and minds we were embattled. But I put those dark thoughts to one side, liking them not and needing at that time to believe good hearts prevailed and reason ruled. To my mind, that day saw Lysis and those others who had been with us at Phyle finally receive the accolades they deserved, and so Anytos’ criticisms of Sokrates fell away from me like water off a duck’s back. 

The next week, I spent more time pondering Xenophon’s decision to seek his fortune with Cyrus than I ever did thinking about the political climate of Athens. My old friend came to dine with us the night before his departure, bringing with him a parting gift of finely painted cups displaying images of Hermes: the one showing him with winged hat and sandals warning Odysseus about Circe (the pigs were particularly finely painted); the other showing him conveying the souls of Penelope’s suitors to Hades. The subject of the decoration made the cups an unusual gift for a guest to bring his host, albeit a very generous one. 

“I mean no ill-will,” Xenophon explained, “it is just that I knew you more than anyone would appreciate these cups and I wanted you to have something more than just a token to remember me by, as we have long been friends, and it may be I will not see you again.” 

For my part I was touched, and apologised, for while the food was plentiful, nonetheless the meal he was offered was simple; it was all I could afford. We had weathered the changes in Athens better than some, not being dependent on foreign holdings as other more prominent families had been, so we had never indulged in the kind of lavish display others had. But though we were not badly off, we lived carefully and did not entertain often. Xenophon said it was that way with most families of honour these days; the only way to get ahead seemed to be trickery, which he knew I would eschew, or adventuring, which he was why he had decided to take Proxenos’ suggestion and seek his fortune with Cyrus. 

The food was well prepared by Thalia, some bread and cheese, with roast pigeon and olives. My wife served us with the help of our one servant, before retiring to her rooms, leaving us with flagons of wine and water, to while away the rest of our time together in reminiscence. 

“Athens is spent, Alexias,” said Xenophon, “and there is an ill-wind blowing, which I fear will buffet and bruise honourable men. You could do worse than leave. 

He took in good part my dismissal of his advice. “We ever chose different roads,” he shrugged, “but treading the same path does not always suit different men.” At the end of the evening, slightly worse for drink, since even decently watered, several cups will have an effect, we toasted old friends and poured the final libation to honour Apollo. 

My memories of the next year were purely domestic. I had married Thalia scant days after Lysis’ death, but made few demands of her. She had been married young by him and he had allowed her time to get used to him; she genuinely mourned his loss, as did I, plus my wound sapped my strength. We married because it was the only way to protect her; but it was too soon for us both. I had done what I ought to make the marriage real but no more than that. To his last breath, Lysis had called her ‘child’ so, when I married her, I was not sure he had claimed her at all as a man does his wife; but I found after all that he had. She told me she had cried that time and he left her alone after that, telling her he would wait. She had been too much the child still to feel anything but gratitude at his forbearance. Truthfully, the war and our fight against the Thirty had absorbed all our energies so it cannot have been difficult for him. 

However, after the ceremony in the High City, I had brought home two olive wreaths, and presented one to her as Lysis’ widow. That she kept it safe, I did not doubt; but I never saw it after that. Its presentation marked the beginning of a new stage of our marriage. As was inevitable with two healthy young adults, pregnancy followed. Remembering my mother’s death, I made sure she was well-fed throughout, and helped with heavy tasks so she was not over-burdened. I came back from buying oil in the market one day to find her in labour. I had an appointment with Phaedo and sent a boy to tell him I would not be coming. Instead he came to sit with me in the I courtyard, telling me he remembered I had lost my mother this way, and he did not want me to wait alone. We talked a little of logic and much of mathematics and its relationship with the physical world (not a subject about which I have more than a modicum of understanding) which was interrupted to my great relief when Charis brought the news out to me that I had a son. I remember enquiring after Thalia’s health, and the easing of my fears when I was told she was doing well. To have a son is good; but babies are generally a woman’s province and this baby was unknown to me. I had grown very fond of Thalia during the last two years. Charis served us wine and we toasted the baby and gave thanks to the gods for delivering Thalia safely. Phaedo then took me off to the agora to celebrate, where we met Sokrates and Plato who said all things proper. 

That summer we left the city. I found a tenant for the townhouse in a visiting merchant from Chios which brought us some badly needed income, and we spent most of the next two years on the farm. This meant the rumbling discontent in politics came as a surprise to me when I returned to Athens the next winter. My friends who had seen it grow had become gradually used to it; but it shocked me. 

“When did things turn bitter?” I asked wonderingly. “Always there were some who looked askance at Sokrates; but no one really doubted his loyalty, especially given his military service. He debates the principles of democracy and oligarchy, seeing both merit and potential problems in each system but that is not the same as selling out Athens to an enemy.”

“No, but Kritias followed him for a time. Simply knowing that casts doubts in the minds of many people,” said Phaedo heavily, “and he was friends with Alcibiades, who all know went over to Sparta.” 

“But this is false,” I exclaimed, “even Sokrates’ worst critics have always known him true to his city! And as for the rumours he corrupts youth–” 

“Young men have always been attracted to him. You and I both are prime examples of that,” reminded Phaedo. 

“Yes, but not the way they are suggesting!” I was appalled. “He discusses – he argues back and forth – he reasons – he asks questions and challenges assumptions; but he never advocates throwing out old ideas just because they are old. He just wants people to consider why they have stood the test of time, their strengths and limitations, and consider how to improve things. To make better laws, not flout them, and be true to the ideals of the gods, not do whatever we want while pretending we are adhering to them. You of all people know that!”

Plato looked at me with tired eyes. “I sometimes feel I have argued with every man in Athens about that very fact, including Sokrates himself, who cannot prevent himself from debating the rights and wrongs of anything, and seeking the truth, even when he can see his audience is against him.” 

Phaedo phrased it more baldly: “he is arguing himself into a grave and he cares not; the principle is all to him.” 

They had had time to understand what was creeping into public feeling, as the poison Anytos espoused, along with his crony Meletus, had spread slowly. I now came to an awareness of the dangers to Sokrates suddenly and determined to try to do something. I had him to dine, along with Phaedo and Kriton and Eukles, who had been at Phyle and remembered what Lysis and I had said about our old teacher. Plato I invited, but true to his own ideals, he would not enter my house, and I respected him for it. 

I explained to Thalia why we were going to such expense given we normally lived quite simply, even frugally, and needed to save all our money for the education of our son. I do not know if she really understood but she did me proud nonetheless. Once again, she served my guests, doing my house credit in her duty and modesty, and in her clear directions to the maid who helped. Once again, the food was simple but plentiful. That was all to the good as far as Sokrates was concerned. Though he had often dined in wealthier households and been offered fancier fare than I could provide, his preference was for cheese and bread and honey, rather than venison or imported delicacies. At the end of the meal she provided flagons of wine and water and retired upstairs to women’s quarters, though she bid the servant girl to wait up in the kitchen in case we called for anything else. 

In vain we pleaded with Sokrates to be careful, more circumspect in who he spoke with and what he said. The crows are gathering, we said. Protect yourself, at least for a time, until this blows over. He countered all our arguments. That would be a crime against truth, he said, and his personal honour demanded he seek honesty in all ways. Such was his modesty he could not believe his enemies placed so much importance on what he said. It was a wonderful evening, full of the kind of intellectual discourse which stretched one’s understanding that I had always received in Sokrates’ company, and a delight for that. But my worries for him only deepened. 

“At least you tried,” comforted Phaedo, when I encountered him a few days later and expressed my anxiety for our mentor’s safety, “which is more than some of his so-called friends have done, turning away from him when more honourable men would stand by him. 

Nonetheless, I struggled to make sense of events when Sokrates was finally formally accused and put on trial. When I think back, I realise it was hard on Thalia, to stay behind in the house and wait while I attended the trial, knowing my feelings as she did. I listened with horror to his accusers. His defence brought a smile to my lips, but only increased my fear for him. The decision to impose death horrified. 

This was not the city where I had grown up, this bitter and twisted parody of Athens. Phaedo, who was there to support him to the very end, brought word to me of Sokrates’ death. I offered to help pay for his funeral; but there was no need he said. Those brave men who had offered to pay 3,000 drachmae had the Court imposed a fine (which was what any reasonable man would have expected) were paying for Sokrates to be cremated and had commissioned an urn for his ashes, painted with Thanatos on one side and the suicide of Ajax on the other. They also said they would see to it that his widow and three sons did not suffer. Three days after his death, I attended Sokrates’ funeral and formed part of the procession that saw his body placed on the funeral pyre. 

I went home late that afternoon, heart-sick, to find the household in turmoil and Thalia directing Charis and our servant woman in a frenzy of cleaning and sorting. I watched, cuddling a strangely subdued Myron on my lap as she bustled round me, until, unable to bear the disruption any longer, grating as it did on nerves made raw by the funeral, I thundered, “what are you doing woman!”

“Packing,” she replied. “For the heart of Athens died three days past and we are quitting this city which killed it.” 

Citizen I remained until my death, but neither Thalia nor I set foot in Athens again.


End file.
